


ceci n'est pas un noir

by makiyakinabe



Category: Joker Game (Anime)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Noir Inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:25:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7134812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makiyakinabe/pseuds/makiyakinabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p><i>Dive right in or get out while you can.</i> My friend in the mafia was the one who said that to me.</p>
</blockquote><br/>Ten characters, ten snippets.
            </blockquote>





	ceci n'est pas un noir

**Author's Note:**

> If Japanese schoolboys can become members of the mafia, so can monster spies. ~~Setting? What setting? Hahahahaaa~~  
> 

"I was that bright-eyed rookie cop too, once upon a time. Had a head chock full of the most naïve ideas. Justice and righteousness. Honour and dignity. The whole nine yards. But here's the thing: innocent lambs don't last long in this line of work. _Dive right in or get out while you can_. My friend in the mafia was the one who said that to me."

"...the mafia, Mr. Sakuma?"

"What, you think us detectives are man-of-integrity types ourselves? Who should never associate with those dirty liars and cowards? You'll want to think again. There's no source of information as reliable as the mafia, as long as you're not afraid to make a deal with them. My friend, though—he's the worst of the lot, I'll tell you that. Set me up to cut my stomach open the first time we met. Heard the story yet?"

"Not from your mouth, no. Do tell, we're simply _dying_ to hear it."

" _Miyoshi?!_  Just how in the blazes did you get in here? I thought you were at some meeting of the brass—"

"Cynicism doesn't become Mr. Sakuma very well, does it, Mr. Gamou?"

"I can't say that it does, Mr. Miyoshi."

"Oi! I'm standing _right_ _here_."

 

* * *

 

Miyoshi had got it all made, and he knew it. He had a face that gave whoever looks at him, men or women, a case of the hot pants. A couple of yards tucked away in a Swiss bank account, enough to buy himself a small island in the Pacific. A hundred men under his command and many more willing to climb each other's heads just to get in. Word even had it that he was slated to become the underboss, that the Boss himself was grooming him take over the reins eventually, a rumour he'd as of yet neither confirmed nor denied.

Miyoshi  _supposed_ it could be unfair, how he seemingly was the only one with the whole world at his fingertips, but what could he say? Lady Luck did always love a pretty face.

So when Mr. Sakuma stumbled head-first into his world, a rara avis of a man, with a moral compass as straight as an arrow and a face that all too often wore the heart on its sleeve—Miyoshi was intrigued. A smart little egg, as serious as can be, standing with his back ramrod straight and looking every inch a copper? Mr. Sakuma might as well have a gigantic neon arrow hanging over him, the tip of which pointed downwards.

Getting attached to the man, though... that was an unexpected development.

Stuck in his office, large and sparkling-clean and containing everything he ever needed except for one telling, man-shaped absence, Miyoshi heaved a sigh. Swiveling around in his plush chair, he cast a lazy glance towards the clock on the wall, its hands moving slower than a snail.

This playing hard to get business was harder than he'd expected.

 

* * *

 

"He came by again today, that Frenchman of yours."

"Who?"

"Alain Lernier. Brown hair, brown eyes, a smile like a ray of sunshine—that ring any bells?"

"A word of advice, Mr. Sakuma: drop the tough guy act. Your head sleuth does it so much better, and when _he_ talks it's like watching a stuffed boar flap its mouth like a dummy. Not exactly the sort of thing you should mimicking, you understand."

"Sh-shut up! You don't know what you're talking about! PI Mutou is the best in the business! He's solved over a hundred cases—"

"From the safety of his office over there? A likely story. All he ever does is prop his feet on his desk, blow smoke rings with his cigars and bury his face behind a newspaper when he's expecting a big fish. Why you're bothering to stick up for the likes of him, I have no idea. You could do a lot better. Miyoshi thinks so too."

"..."

"We can help you, you know. All you have to do is say the word."

"Nice try. I know what you're trying to do, Hatano. Changing the subject won't make Mr. Lernier go away. He's determined to find you, won't take 'no' for an answer. I fed him the story you told me—'Japanese university student found with his head blown open inside an abandoned warehouse: perpetrator yet to be determined, but all signs point to the Kazato gang'—but he didn't even bat an eye during the grisly parts. Swore up and down that the student can't possibly be the Shimano Ryousuke he knows."

"..."

"It's not like it'll kill you to see Mr. Lernier again."

"I'm not here for tea and gossip, Mr. Sakuma. Save the chitchat for someone who'll appreciate it. _The file_ , if you please." 

 

* * *

 

The Snow Maiden was the swankiest Japanese restaurant in town. They weren't your average sushi hash house, with American sushi names at the top of the menu and All-You-Can-Eat deals on Fridays, no siree. If someone so much as hinted something along those lines, they'd be out on their ass faster than they could say 'Alaska'.

What they created in the back of the house, as Chef Fukumoto loved to say, was goddamn _art._

Business was always on the up and up at the Snow Maiden. Fukumoto wished he could say this was thanks to his mastery in the kitchen—everybody left the restaurant with full stomachs, their wallets so much lighter than when they came in—but the truth was, he'd couldn't have done it alone. Most of the customers who shelled out their dough at the restaurant, they were either one of them or their associates. Everyone else, they took one look at the men in suits lounging by the door and changed tack, decided to try their luck elsewhere.

This suited Fukumoto just fine. Nobody was as appreciative of his creations as family, and chefs did so love their compliments.

The whopper going around that he served bad fugu and mixed cyanide with the drinks, though, that Fukumoto could have done without. He hated it when people sent back his creations uneaten. Thought it no better than slugs to the face: didn't their Ma ever taught them to eat whatever was put in front of them?

Besides, Fukumoto told himself, as he bent over one of his 'special' creations: whoever made up that whopper couldn't have been more wrong.

The sashimi slices, artfully made into roses and secured with toothpicks, anyone could nab and eat a piece, no problem. There was no trace of poison in the fish—Fukumoto made sure of that. He was a chef, he created dishes for people to  _enjoy_ , not die from. If a case of food poisoning ever happened at the Snow Maiden, all the dough in the world wouldn't be enough to keep the restaurant on its feet.

Using a spoon and some soy sauce, Fukumoto drew a curlicue along the edge of the plate. Once finished, he stepped back, gave a nod to the waiter on stand-by: a signal that the dish was ready to be served.

_Four roses, eight petals each, arranged in one straight line._

They might not mean certain death for the customer who ordered them, but that didn't mean everything was just jake, either.

 

* * *

 

A loud groan.

"Really, guys? Would it kill all of you to sit still and look pretty for one minute?"

In chorus, " _Yes._ " 

"...is this because I said this portrait's going to be humans only?"

"Mr. Sakuma is human."

"Never said he wasn't, did I, Odagiri? But seriously—Miyoshi, Mr. Sakuma already said he won't be able to make it. Hatano, you even can't find your cat half the time. Tazaki, you've got too many pigeons to make this work."

"Did I ever say I wanted Nyanta here?"

"Ah, but see, if you wanted a snap with your Frenchman, first you'll have to tell him you're not actually six feet under—Alright, _alright!_ I'll take that back! Leave my camera alone, will you? The repair for this shit is expensive like you wouldn't believe."

A soft chuckle. "Are you sure you don't want your camera in the portrait too?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Jitsui, and I don't want to know."

"What about lunch?"

"Your restaurant's not going to go down under just because you took an hour off, Fukumoto. For the last time, you guys: one minute. It's all I ask for."

"I fail to see why we've got to have a snap taken at all."

"Come on, it's not so bad. Kaminaga just wants some more practice with the camera."

"For that, Amari, I'll give you a snap for free. Come on, guys, it's not every day we get all the brass in one room, is it? Might as well commemorate the occasion with a little something special. Who knows when we can all get together again?"

Then came the sound of a cane tapping against the ground,  _rat-a-tat—_

"What are you all doing here?"

"...the Boss is standing right behind me, isn't he."

"We're getting a group snap taken, sir. It was Kaminaga's idea."

"Is that so? Snaps are for men who went up the river or chilled off: I believe I've made myself quite clear as to where I stand regarding these types."

In chorus, " _Yessir._ "

The fading pitter-patter of footsteps.

A sigh of resignation. "Looks like it's just you and me again, pal."

 

* * *

 

"I see you've got a new sleuth around, Mr. Sakuma."

"You didn't know? Well, will you look at that—I would've thought Miyoshi'd have told you all about him by now. The last time these two met, they got along like a house on fire."

"Oh, but there's no need to be jealous, Mr. Sakuma. You're the one Mr. Miyoshi was here to see."

"What, you trying to make a monkey out of me, Gamou? There's no need for that. If you want to be best pals with that guy, be my guest. Just don't come crying a river after he sets you up to take a dive off some cliff and tries to pass it off as a, uh, what's that phrase Miyoshi used again? Oh yes: 'a mode of commemoration for the beginning of a beautiful friendship'."

"Take a deep breath, Mr. Sakuma, there's a good man. Your neck's looking a little tense. Let's see, what do we have here—ah. So this is the culprit."

"A playing card?"

"It's not just _any_ playing card. This is the king of diamonds: Caesar's card. He's a peach, that Caesar, if a bit of a grump. Carrying the world on a set of shoulders not big enough for the job does that to a man."

"As you well know, crime in this town doesn't exactly do a nine-to-five."

"Be that as it may, burning yourself out with overworking wouldn't do you any favours, either."

"..."

"That's a handy trick, Mr. Tazaki."

"Thank you, Mr. Gamou. I've got a couple more up my sleeve. Would you like me to show you another...?"

 

* * *

 

It was supposed to be a job like any other. Smoke out the old fluff. Get him to swear to leave Mayor Akutsu alone using any means possible. The Boss wasn't all that fussed over the details, as long as the fluff didn't croak it. Leaving behind a body was as good as hailing yourself a prowl-car: sooner or later some unsuspecting kid was going to trip over it and raise hell.

Everything was jake up until the old fluff keeled over, right before Amari's eyes.

Now, Amari didn't do it. Never had it in him. The Boss didn't open the books for killers, said they're more trouble than they're worth.  _Don't die, don't kill, don't get caught_ : those were the rules of the game, and it was a game Amari played well.

But the dame who did—

She had a little lady clutching at the hem of her dress, a pretty little thing who went by the name of Emma. One look into those blue, blue eyes and Amari was a goner.

Kids had no place in their line of work. Amari saw them all too often, floating face down among the debris or curled up the back of a closet, thin as bones: and those were supposed to be the lucky ones. The kids who made it—the ones sent running head first into danger, their only line of defense a pistol they didn't even know how to use—they came back looking like death warmed over and were never quite the same afterwards. Amari wouldn't wish that future on any kid.

So he took Emma from the dame's side, and here they were, the two of them with a dog, keeping it on the lowdown on the other side of the country.

He'd gummed up: ain't that the truth. He wasn't supposed to get attached, prided himself on being above it all. But looking down at the little lady, leant into his side sound asleep, the moonlight pale on her face, Amari knew the choice was already made for him.

And he wouldn't trade it for the world.

 

* * *

 

There was a click: the sound of a gun being cocked.

"My, my. Going from defending corrupt pigs to welcoming vipers into your midst, now, are we? Quite the step-down, if I do say so myself. You're a real bleeding heart, Mr. Sakuma."

A sharp inhale.

" _Gamou?!_  But how—You—I saw your cop records with my own two eyes—"

"Oh, but they're real, Mr. Sakuma. My police academy records, too. Boss Kazato doesn't believe in doing things in halves. Mr. Morishima, on the other hand... this is a surprise. I could've sworn I double-checked the dosage of the drug I slipped you."

"The dosage was fine. Where you made a mistake was in assuming that I swallowed the shot of hooch. That sure was some foul stuff: I wouldn't drink it even if you paid me."

"Not even if I promised to make it worth your while?"

Soft laughter.

"My, Mr. Gamou, aren't you a joker." A pause. "I could use a piece of you, except for one thing. My, ah, interests run in an entirely different direction."

"Jitsui. There's only one man in the room with a gun, and it's neither you or me. Just how in the blazes does the pickle we're in scream 'now here's a good time to flirt'?"

"When you're a man who sits on dynamite as often as we do, Mr. Sakuma, you'll find that _any_ time's a good time for sweet talk."

 

* * *

 

He was in a dark, dark place when the Boss turned up on his doorstep, a man with a black fedora and a cane and hooded eyes that stared right into his soul.

I need someone like you, the Boss said.

You're looking in the wrong place, he said. He was a shadow of the man he once was, got nothing to his name but a string of cold cases and a bank balance below zero. He didn't even have the roof over his head. The landlady had swung by that very morning, a crumpled eviction notice in her gnarled claws—he'd be out on the streets at sundown.

Rookies fresh outta copper school are a dime a dozen, the Boss said. Mindless stooges chained to that bureaucratic monster you call authority, that's all they'll ever amount to.

Not the best thing to say, Gramps, he said. I was that 'mindless stooge' only a couple days ago.

If looks could kill the one the Boss gave him would've had him on the floor, covered in a pool of his own blood, the life fading from his eyes like a candle burned to the socket. It was a look he'd come to know like the back of his hand. A warning to put a lid on it unless he wanted a nighttime swim with the fishes.

He met the look head-on. Better to go down fighting, he figured, than to go down with his tail between his legs. At least his obituary in the papers would be a bit more flattering that way.

But instead of whipping a gun out of nowhere and filling him with daylight, the Boss stretched out his hand, the palm facing up.

Come with me, the Boss said. I can give you all you need: a room of your own, food on the table, a couple zeroes to send back home to your Ma every month. A sense of purpose. What you are right now is a dead man walking, Mr. Odagiri. I'm offering you an opportunity to change.

I won't kill for you, he said.

I won't ask you to, the Boss said.

He took the Boss's hand without thinking, and he'd been regretting it ever since. 

 

* * *

 

The second that lad walked through the doors, Gamou knew he was trouble. He was a devil of a beauty, that lad. Porcelain skin, eyes of molten silver, a dainty little mouth just begging to be kissed and a damn fine ass to go along with it all. 

But behind that angelic face was a soul dyed pitch-black with sin.

Gamou would know. He still had the bruises to prove it, great ugly swathes of red all over his neck from when the lad choked all the air out of him, putting lips to his ear to gently coax him to sleep. The lad was a real son of a gun, alright, and he had been a smart little egg to think otherwise.

The bruise were throbbing now at the memory of those phantom hands, curled around the sides neck in a vice-like grip. He put a careful hand to them.

The lad, a proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing, zeroed in on the movement and came slinking over. Affixed to that pretty face was a disarmingly pleasant smile—the very same one as he remembered seeing, seconds before his world went black. How curious: had he not had the living daylights squeezed out of him, he'd as lief thought the lad wanted to apologise. To avoid starting on the wrong foot.

How's your neck, Mr. Gamou? asked the lad.

It's seen better days, he said.

My, said the lad. Such a shame, a piece of beef like you all roughed up like that...

The lad stretched out a hand. He caught it by the wrist before it could reach his neck, but in a split second the lad had weaseled out of his grasp, taking his arm, twisting it and bringing it down hard on his desk in quick succession. A sharp pain flared up his shoulder, his breath hitched—

No fighting in the office! came Mr. Sakuma's shout. The man was already on his feet, halfway around his desk, a scowl aimed in their direction.

We were only a friendly little disagreement, said the lad. Isn't that right, Mr. Gamou?

Gamou looked into the lad's eyes, bright as quicksilver, and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He suppressed the shiver of anticipation that coursed through him: just because the lad had turned the tables on him didn't mean he had to yield.

Yes, he said, voice low. How inconvenient—his mouth was very dry all of a sudden. Swallowing hard, he tried again: There's no need for you to worry, Mr. Sakuma.

Maybe we should save this for another time, said the lad, brow furrowed in a parody of concern. It wouldn't do to get on Mr. Sakuma's wrong side, would it, Mr. Gamou? He is your superior, after all.

Gamou held his tongue, even though he had a couple choice curses ready. The lad hadn't been asking him a question.

The corner of the lad's mouth lifted in a smirk.

Looks like we've come to an agreement, said the lad lightly, then let go of his arm. See you around, Mr. Gamou.

As he watched the lad walk away, gingerly rubbing at his arm, Gamou shook his head at himself wryly. For the second time running, it was his loss: and this time, there was absolutely nothing he could say for himself.

He was always a sucker for a pretty face.


End file.
